Protecting Home
by Kaira101
Summary: (Sequel to Gone From Home) - A lot can happen in the span of decades. Friends leave and die. Nords change. War is brewing and allegiances are tested with steel and magic. Let's hope Stormcloak can finally gain his footing before the earth crumbles beneath him. Rated T for violence and mature themes. Not recommended for children.
1. Prologue

**Protecting Home**

**A Sequel to Gone From Home**

**An Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim Fan Fiction**

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><p><em>"Daddy, we don't want you to leave."<em>

_ The Altmer smiled unhappily, bending down to his knees to stare at his twins at eye-level. His bright emerald eyes shimmered with sadness and an unspoken agony, but his lips curved into a half-hearted smirk nonetheless. He placed his hands on either of the boys' shoulders, squeezing tightly. _

_ "I won't be gone long. It shall only last a month. In the meantime, I want you to listen to your mother." He paused and glanced upward. The quiet she-elf stood above them, amber eyes glistening with liquid. When her husband looked up at her meaningfully, her jaw tightened and she hardened her face, turning away. _

_ The Altmer's smile wavered and he stared back at his sons, wrapping his hands around the back of their neck affectionately. "I want you to cause no ruckus. No more wild experiments. I don't want you to burn down a second desk." _

_ The twins smirked at that. Last summer, the two mischievous Altmeri children had decided to combine the explosive sap from a local tree in the woods with fire salts. They had known of the flammable capabilities of both ingredients , which only persuaded them further into conducting the experiment. Fortunately and unfortunately, the test had been a success. The two items had sparked with flame, but not before it completely engulfed their wooden desk, sending it to a pile of ashes. Their parents had not been pleased. The twins glanced at each other briefly as they shared that particularly pleasant memory between themselves. _

_ "Yes, _Ata*,_" they mumbled in chorus, peering bashfully at their father. Satisfied, the Altmer gave their shoulders one final squeeze before straightening and waving them off._

_ "Alright, go help your uncle. He's gutted enough fish to cover the entire beach."_

_ The two elven twins beamed at the mention of scaly entrails, and they sped out of the house, shouting over each other joyously as the door crashed against the wall in their wake. Their cries echoed across the area for several seconds before fading into the wind. A cold, bitter silence was left behind, the merriment of the children gone from the home. _

_ Elf and she-elf stood quietly in the elegant elven home, unable to make eye contact with each other. The father hesitantly spun on his heel and began to gather the last of his supplies in a large wool bag, desperate to preoccupy himself. He felt his wife's eyes burn into his back as he slipped a third blanket into the sack, before he reached for a spell tome. _

_ "You aren't coming back."_

_ He froze, emerald eyes widening, before he spun around to face his wife, slightly affronted. His thin eyebrows tangled into a confused frown and he set his bag down. _

_ "What do you mean I am not coming back?" He demanded, but not unkindly. "Of course I'll return, Lorana."_

_ Lorana shook her head, dismissing the thought. Her lips tightened considerably and her shoulders began to shake. "Not with the Thalmor. They will find you. It matters not where you go." Her voice faltered and cracked, and her last sentence was a mere whisper. "They'll find you."_

_ The Altmer crossed the room in a single long stride, and he swiftly embraced his wife, wrapping his arms over her shoulders. Lorana sniffed, but she refused the tears their freedom to fall from her golden cheeks. The Altmer race was never skilled with expressing emotions. They thought it as cowardly._

_ Her husband's long fingers fondled with her soft brown hair. "They will not find me," he murmured, his voice low and chest rumbling against hers. "They haven't yet, and I shall make certain they never will." When he was greeted only with silence, he paused his stroking. "Do you not trust me?"_

_ Lorana's head snapped up in alarm, amber eyes still shimmering with unshed tears. "Of course I trust you, Mithllon," she fiercely reassured, her pride as a supportive wife partially injured. Mithllon smiled at her passion, nodding in content. _

_ "Then trust that I will return home safely."_

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><p>He had lied, of course. He didn't even know he was lying at that time; he thought he would be speaking truth, confident in his abilities to remain unseen from unwanted gazes. But he was no master of stealth. And as he crossed country to country, searching for a new, safer home for his family to live in, he <em><strong>was<strong>_found. In the cold tundra of Skyrim, deep in the forests of Eastmarch, Mithllon had been discovered by the Thalmor.

The pursuit was swift and harsh. Elven horse chased elven horse, across the sea of icy snow, only mere days apart from the other. Neither the hunters or the hunted rested, desperate to widen or close the gap between their target. Neither succeeded, and all were left exhausted and drained. The days drew on to weeks as the chase stretched onward.

And then, by the divine grace and blessing of Auri-El, the Thalmor faltered. They had mindlessly driven their horses beyond exhaustion, and finally it resulted in the snap of bones. One of their horses had broken its leg, and the Thalmor were forced to halt. Mithllon, careful to keep his horse Drastíll watered and fed regularly, was able to drive onwards. Three nights later, the Thalmor had lost Mithllon's trail.

But Mithllon did not halt. He crossed through Hammerfell, desperate to reach Summerset Isles. Perhaps, he reasoned, if he was swifter than the Thalmor, they would not find his family in time. He clutched onto the hope desperately as he cut through the churning ocean that separated the elven islands from the main continent. By the tenth day of his second month journey, he reached the sands of his home.

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><p>Mithllon smiled warily as he clutched onto Drastíll's reigns, more for his own support than to guide the horse through the forest. The elven stallion knew his way around the area well enough, and his elation to be back home had renewed the reserves of his strength. Mithllon, on the other hand, was too drained to walk straight, and the white horse continuously nudged the Altmer's back to force him into a steady walk. This time it was Drastíll's turn to lead his master.<p>

"_We are home, my friend," _Mithllon remarked for the third time in Ayleid, his native tongue, as he fastened his emerald eyes on the familiar trees before him. They looked so much nicer than Skyrim's trees, and Mithllon was glad to see them again. Drastíll nickered contently in response, satisfied to see a pleasant emotion on his master's face, rather than the wan, nervous look that had taken him for many weeks as he fretted over his family. Now, with the prospect that they were only a mere mile away from the Adal home and met no signs of trouble, they allowed themselves a moment to relax.

Mithllon inhaled deeply, taking in the scent of his country, before he paused. A slight frown crossed over his face, and he gazed upward at the sky, partially covered with crisp green leaves. He halted, and Drastíll prepared to nudge the Altmer again. Mithllon waved his hand in front of the horse's face.

"_Stop_," he whispered, and Drastíll obeyed, sensing the tenseness of his master's tone. He flicked his ears in distress and confusion. Something was amiss.

"_Do you smell that?_" Mithllon asked in an undertone. Drastíll rose his nose to sniff the air, and found a faint, unpleasant scent drifting in his nostrils.

Smoke.

The horse paced restlessly.

"_I hear not the songs of birds either_," Mithllon commented, expression growing darker by each passing second. He met gazes with Drastíll, and an unspoken conversation conducted between them. The horse watched his master's skin grow pale, and their thoughts and fears matched together. The word slipped from the Altmer's lips in a matter of seconds:

"Lorana."

Mithllon, sleek as liquid silver, leaped onto Drastíll, and the horse surged forward, hooves thundering against the soft dirt. The trees passed them in blurs of browns and greens, and the scent of smoke grew stronger as the air whipped past them. Drastíll could feel the tight grip of his reigns and the thundering of the High Elf's heart.

The trees suddenly parted ways to expose a new landscape, Drastíll sliding his hooves against the ground before reaching a halt. They both froze.

The air burned.

The land sweltered.

And yet the earth was still.

Fire, scarlet wraiths of death and agony dancing in the air, licked mercilessly at the remains of the skeletal house, its embers' ferocity lessened long ago but its hunger remaining un-sated. Plumes of smoke slithered from beneath the boards to bathe the sky in a dark, murky sludge, concealing the sun to force the land to bask in darkness. The flames crackled as they gnashed at the remains of a once elegant estate, its shimmering glass shattered and its smooth floor charred to a blackened pile of soot. The boards that had managed to remain upright groaned eerily, like a wan dog's last death cry. In the midst of the rubble lay a crumpled form, clothes and skin burned to a pitiful blackened coating, too charred to identify. The only remarkable feature was the pointed ears that prodded out of the body's head, and slivers of brown hair cascading around the ear, the only lucky survivors of the fire. The land was noiseless, the birds frightened from their perches to flee from the smoke-ridden air and animals too wary to go within a mile from the burning carcass of a home.

Drastíll felt Mithllon slide off his saddle; the movement was agonizingly slow and mechanical, and the horse turned to watch the Altmer stand motionlessly on the grass. His face was blank, the orange glow of the fire casting deep shadows to give it a sickly sullen look. His eyes remained ever fastened to the desolation before him, like a ghost staring at his own grave. Drastíll nervously brushed his nose against Mithllon's shoulder, dark eyes boring into his master, searching for a response.

He received none.

Alarmed, the horse nickered softly, prodding his master again, albeit rougher. Again, Mithllon did nothing. He wasn't certain the Altmer was even breathing. Not a whisper passed from his lips, and not a thought formed in his consciousness. Drastíll flicked his tail apprehensively as he scanned the surroundings. Could the Thalmor still be here? Could they be watching them right now, relishing in their pain?

They needed to leave, Drastíll thought urgently. The horse reached out to Mithllon's mind to warn him, but he met a stone wall. Surprised and panicked, he whinnied in agitation as he tried to contact his master-to break the resistance he met. He screamed and nickered and tugged at the Altmer's clothes, trying to jostle him out of his unresponsive trance.

_We have to go, we have to go, we have to go!_

And suddenly, Mithllon moved. His shoulders began to quiver-just the slightest of movement that caused Drastíll to wonder if he was only imagining it. But then his legs abruptly buckled beneath him and he fell to his knees. He curled inward, shoulders shaking more violently, and Drastíll felt Mithllon's mental wall unexpectedly cave in.

Words, fragments of sentences, tumbled out ceaselessly and overwhelmed the beast, whispers and screams mixing together to create a morbid choir of sorrowful wails:

_Dead-burned-gone...gone, gone gonegone, all my fault-I promised-should be alive-Ganllon and Coredalf-what have I done?-Lorana-she's there-I'm so sorry-sorry sorrysorrysorry-a failure-slime-filth-too slow-too late-sloppy, foolish, arrogant child!-the Thalmor-they did this-so did I-how-why-Divines-no-help-not fair-_

Drastíll violently tore himself from the confines of Mithllon's mind, the tendrils of horror and agony still clutching onto his consciousness, leaving whispers at the back of his head. The horse snorted heavily as he stared down at Mithllon, concern flowing over him. The Altmer began to breathe hoarsely, slowly shaking his head as his fingers dug into his scalp. Drastíll felt his master's consciousness reach to his, and he flinched at the growing pain that brushed against his mind.

_We were too late._

Unable to reply back, Drastíll simply flicked his ears in sorrowful agreement. Mithllon retracted into himself once more.

And screamed.

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><p><strong>* Ata - father in the Ayleid (Elven) language<strong>

**Author's Note: Although it is highly recommended, reading Gone From Home is not mandatory. I will make the characters clear enough for outsiders to understand. I do hope you enjoy this fan fiction's contents, and choose to join me on this journey! And please, if there is context within the story that annoys you, bothers you, or you find as cliche, please notify me! I will accept your critique with open arms and a warm smile!**

** I'll see you in the next chapter.  
><strong>


	2. Chapter 1: Cold Parchment

**Protecting Home**

**Sequel to Gone From Home, and an Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim fan fiction**

**Chapter 1: Cold Parchment**

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><p>"Couldn't we simply kill the beast now? It'd be far quicker."<p>

"Of course not, you insolent fool! The information this one holds could allow us to win the war!"

The lesser Thalmor soldier grumbled beneath his breath, folding his arms over his chest as he glowered at the wilted form in the small stone chamber, whose limbs were bound in iron clasps, rendering his wrists and ankles a raw bloody mess. His muscles, which had been knotted and massive, built over the time of fierce training and combat, seemed to have shriveled up. His skin, blue and bloody, clung to his bones, his rips exposing how malnourished he was. His blonde mane was tossed over his bowed head, casting a shadow over his bruised and swollen face. He almost looked like a broken man, finally submitted to the agonies of Altmeri torture.

Almost.

His eyes, a bright icy blue, seemed to gleam from their sockets, piercing his Altmer captors with a fierce glare that melted stone. The Thalmor was always unnerved by those eyes. He didn't like them. He wanted to cut them out with a knife. But he knew his superior would never allow it. So, he sniffed disdainfully, lips curling into an ugly snarl as he returned his own withering glare at the Nord. Of course, the man did not respond. He hadn't replied to anything for days. Although his vigilance seemed admirable to some, the Thalmor was only annoyed. Who knew what secrets lied inside the human? He could know secret tunnel complexes, vantage points for archers, or the plans of the enemy themselves. But the stubborn Nord refused to expose anything! It was a growing irritation and the man was becoming a liability.

The Altmer folded his arms across his chest as he sat in the rank prison, glowering at the cell as if he was the prisoner himself. The captive silently watched the High elf, a word never passing from his lips. The Thalmor resisted the urge to squirm under his gaze, instead casting an air of nonchalance as he plucked a book from a near-by table and began to read it. Yes, he concluded. It was best to ignore the inferior human and his gaze. Let him rot in his own filth.

He supposed he had all the time in the world.

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><p>Hours passed, and the Thalmor was growing drowsy and dehydrated. He had not been relieved of his shift, which had ended a good forty minutes ago, and he was beginning to feel the effects of hunger. He sighed and straightened, setting his book down to stretch his back. He glanced around, feeling his stomach twist and churn, threatening to grumble in complaint. He shrugged and began to walk out the door; he could grab a quick meal. It wasn't as if the prisoner would go anywhere.<p>

However, just as he was prepared to step out the door, he was met with a sound. It was loud and grating in the stone walls, echoing across the halls in long, hollow wails:

Screaming.

The Thalmor paled, wondering if he was certainly hearing correctly. Other sounds resounded from the halls as well: the clash of steel against flesh, and the snap of bones. Crackling followed but died soon after, and immediately the scent of magic filled the air. The screams were cut short almost immediately, halting after a short, high-pitched shriek. Then nothing.

"What in the name of Auri-El..." His hand twitched toward the door, his tongue dry and bones cold. He glanced momentarily behind him to make certain the prisoner was still there (ah, but then again, where could he possibly go?), before sweeping his gaze back to the door. Then he paused. His eyebrows furrowed, and his lips curled into a frown. Something had unsettled him. He felt the hair on his neck prickle, feeling the prisoner's gaze on him. He looked back once more, the first tendrils of fear setting in. The prisoner was watching, eyes gleaming from beneath his matted blonde hair.

And smiled.

* * *

><p>The Thalmor didn't have any time to even scream when the door swung open behind him and the axe was upon him. He crumpled to the ground like a limp doll, not given the time to even raise an arm to protect himself. Bellowing laughter followed immediately after, and Ulfric watched as Galmar Stone-Fist barreled inside, eyes gleaming with elation at the sight of split Thalmor blood. He grinned widely at the Nord still chained inside the prison, hooking his bloodied battleaxe onto his belt, not bothering to clean the blade.<p>

"Miss me?" he asked in his deep, growly voice.

Uflric snorted, rolling his eyes to the heavens. "And here I finally thought I'd be rid of your smell. I thought I'd be able to breathe for once."

Galmar had the decency to look hurt, but he couldn't hold the expression for too long. His unshaven face broke out in a wide smile, thick chest heaving with laughter, and Ulfric quickly followed suit. The two young men bellowed with merriment, and Galmar swooped down in mock grace to snatch the key from the fallen Thalmor and unlock Ulfric's cell.

"How did you find me?" Ulfric growled, wincing once his wrists were free from their shackles. Both Nords stared at the raw flesh in disgust, before Galmar looked at Ulfric questionably. "It's fine," Ulfric shrugged dismissively, stretching his sore muscles.

"We found a wounded Thalmor on the east road, and we figured if there was a place to start searching for clues, it would start with her," Galmar answered gruffly. He pulled another axe from his belt and passed it to the Nord, who took it gratefully. Malnourished or not, he would gladly carve his way out of this pit.

He rose an eyebrow. " 'We'?"

Galmar gestured to the vacant hallway, and they both stepped into it. Ulfric's brow rose even higher as he stepped over the bodies of Thalmor littering the space. It seemed the battle had been swift and cleanly executed. His friend ignored Ulfric's stare.

"We managed to get her slippery tongue to talk, and she revealed a location."

Ulfric heard a 'but' coming on. He frowned. "It wasn't the right location, was it?"

Galmar shook his head. "The pointy-eared goblin had led us right into an ambush. You know Altmer: they can't help you without trying to wring your neck first. Luckily, we weren't that stupid, and we had set up an ambush of our own. Their ambush failed, and after threatening to cut off more than her ears, she finally told us where you were." He waved a hand vaguely around the area to indicate the 'where' they were. Ulfric smiled slightly and slapped Galmar on the back. "Thank you, brother."

His friend shrugged off the praise. "It was mostly Rikke's idea. You should have seen her face once she realized you were gone."

Ulfric glanced around, even when his subconscious told him there was no living soul in sight. "Where is she?"

"Ah, she's in this pit somewhere, killing the last of the Thalmor, I'm sure. But we should get out of here. Get you something to eat. You look my great-grandmother before she realized food was actually something you ingest."

Ulfric snorted, about to retort with his own witty comment, but he paused, staring down the hallway with a frown. "Wait," he grunted, and Galmar halted obediently, eyebrows arching in question. "There's a storage room inside here."

Galmar grunted. "So? You want to eat stale Altmer bread? My cousin Dwark tried one once. Was sick for a week-"

"No, no. The Thalmor had mentioned moving their documents in there because the room was becoming damp. Maybe there's something we could use against the Thalmor. They might have plans that we could take."

Understanding reached Galmar's eyes and he grinned darkly. "Alright, let's find this storage room."

The two Nords began their search, picking their way through corpses and killing any Thalmor still stupid enough to be there. It wasn't long before they found it, the room piled with barrels and shelves stacked to the brim with leeks and cheese. Galmar sniffed a cabbage tentatively, lips curling in disgust. Vegetables were the Nords' worst enemy. "Thalmor and their greens..." he grunted, discarding the leaf-ball onto the floor. Wordlessly, they began to shuffle through the trunks of chests, reading document after document. Occasionally there was a surprised murmur and the shuffle of parchment as one of the Nords stashed the paper into their pockets. Ulfric had nearly reached the bottom of the trunk when something caught his attention. His brow furrowed and his hand found a small file contained in a leather pack, its edges worn and weathered. The name "Mithllon Adal" was printed in fine black ink on the cover.

It was the name that caught Ulfric's attention. It pulled at his consciousness, and a memory surfaced, dim but fondly recalled. Ulfric had met an Altmer named Mithllon once. It was long ago-at least a decade-when Ulfric was only a child. The elf was kind and fatherly to him, with a smile that had melted his fears away...Where was he now, Ulfric wondered for a moment.

Again, the book tugged at his interest, and hastily Ulfric opened it and scanned the first page.

"_Mithllon Adal-male Altmer of average height, black hair and green eyes...blah blah blah, suspicious behavior...not trusting of the Thalmor's superiority...blah blah...openly disapproved of Thalmor rule...dangerous renegade...escaped...searching for him now...discovered in Skyrim."_

Ulfric frowned. He remembered a face, when he was with Mithllon. He recalled an Elven face dressed in dark, gold-embroidered robes. He hadn't thought the figure at all significant but now...he remembered Mithllon's distress once the Altmer had revealed himself. Had that been the Thalmor Mithllon was trying to evade? Ulfric's frown deepened and he flipped through the other pages-which were filled with more information about Mithllon in regards to his personal life and his family (married, with two sons, and owned a fishing boat with his brother)-until he finally reached the last page:

_Third of the Second Seed, 4E 163_

_ We finally captured the Altmeri renegade and brought him into custody. Luckily, after witnessing his family's demise, he seemed compliant to our requests and came willingly. He was executed privately on The Twenty-Eighth of Rain's Hand, and all remaining evidence has been destroyed. Inform Thalmor officer Ancano to cease the search and return to his commanding office, where he shall receive a promotion for his efforts._

"-leave now, before more Thalmor come...Ulfric?"

Ulfric hadn't realized Galmar had been talking. His mind was numb, and the cold parchment was suddenly very heavy in his hands.

He hadn't read it right.

_Executed. _Gone. Mithllon...no, he couldn't be. He was _Mithllon_, the first friend Ulfric had ever made. He couldn't be captured by some petty Thalmor...and..._executed. _By Talos, the word sounded so rotten in his mind.

Ulfric read it again, in hopes that perhaps he didn't understand the wording, that this was just some sick joke and his childhood friend was still out there, in the real world, healthy and _alive_. An impossible weight fell onto his back and a lump formed in his throat. His vision blurred even as he tried to swallow down the bile that rose in the back of his mouth. He felt sick and dizzy, nauseated by the thoughts and memories churning in his mind.

_Exectuted._

By Talos, why?

"You alright, Ulfric?" Galmar bent closer to his friend, concern in his voice, and the Nord blinked rapidly, willing the tears away. He cleared his throat and nodded hastily.

"I'm fine," he managed, but his voice scratched and cracked at the syllables. He swallowed again, coughing subtly as he stashed the file back into chest, wishing he could burn the entire room to the ground. "I'm fine," he repeated, and this time his voice sounded clearer and more steady. "Just getting a little overzealous about these documents."

Galmar's brow furrowed, and he smiled uncertainly. "I doubt they'll be _that _important, but they should help us somewhat." His smile began to ebb away as Ulfric faced him. "You...sure you're alright?"

"I'm _fine_," he ground out through clenched teeth. He still felt as sick as a dog, but his sorrow began to grow into something...darker. He felt a subtle anger build in his chest, and he quickly stepped past Galmar, fist curling against the hilt of his axe. "If we're unlucky, we'll pass through this prison unseen."

Galmar glanced at him tentatively. "And if we're lucky?"

"We stumble over a few Thalmor on the way out."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: I apologize over how long it took me to write this chapter. Finals are around the corner, so I'm focusing on school more and more. I'll try to write another chapter within the next week. See you soon!<strong>


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